


let the storm speak (for us)

by orphan_account



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, M/M, War Era, World War II, basically spot gets drafted and angst ensues, drafting au, jack mush and skittery are really only mentioned, sprace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	let the storm speak (for us)

He’d always imagined that a storm would roll in the night before. Thunderclouds would beat stars into submission, and shove the moon from her perch among them with no remorse. There would be rage, there would be electricity running through muscles and bouncing between blackening walls, crackling, righteous. The oceans could scream from the heavens for all he cared- the world could be engulfed in saltwater, cities could fall, continents could blacken. Something had to pay, somehow. Grief could not be left alone.

But tonight, the sky is clear of clouds. No rain bites into the concrete, no current fills the rusty pipes within the apartment walls. New York City mocks the night sky- streetlights glimmering, laughing in time with the bright specks scattered upon the expanse of dark silk. He closes the curtains.

The room is unnaturally silent as he strikes a match against the tabletop, holding it to a few candles around the room before blowing it out. They can’t afford electricity in the winter. It’s a choice between heat and light, and sometimes, neither seems logical.

He scoffs quietly. What had been logical lately? The draft? The _war?_ The transport of millions of men across the expanse of sea to fight in a war of worlds? The papers told stories of bombs, of gunfire, of smoke, and of death, of blood and battle. He remembers them walking down to the registration office, all smiles and shouting as they signed the forms, secretly filing away their futures. This was before bodies began coming home, before the lists of friends and neighbors “deceased” grew longer each month. To think they would’ve sold those papers years ago.

All of this was before Spot was drafted.

He sits down on the bed, staring at the wall, his eyes unable to trace the weaving navy patterns of the wallpaper, unable to drift to where it curls at the corners. He simply stares, the silence pressing in on his ears, like the presence next to him. Aware and away, all at once, it stretches on.

“Race,” He refuses to turn, instead locking his eyes on the enigma of the lines in front of him. He can feel Spot’s blue eyes scanning his face for a moment before flicking away, only vulnerable in periphery. “Listen. you’ve gotta talk to me. Don’t finally shut your mouth tonight, I’ll miss it.” He tries to ignore how Spot’s voice cracks ever so slightly in the end, the attempted joke dying in his throat.

“This is it, ain’t it,” He’s surprised at the sound of his own voice, barely a croak in the pressing quiet. “The last night.”

“The last night.” Spot repeats. They stay there once more, quiet stretching in between their short sentences. Maybe silence made time tick slower. If it were that easy, I’d shut my mouth for good. Spot sighs, running a hand through his hair. “This won’t be that big of a deal, Race. We’ll get through it-”

“You know that ‘big deal’ don’t even cover this. Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Spot is silent. Race laughs dryly, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “You know, we coulda dodged this. If you’d just made up y’ damn mind earlier, Conlon, we’d be home free in Canada. Or Mexico. Somethin’. Right over the border and we woulda been safe,” He begins to feel his hands shaking, but ignores it. If he leaves it, maybe his bones won’t fracture, maybe his own voice will keep from fracturing. “But Brooklyn is too good to us, right Spot? You’d never leave.”

“You know they woulda caught me. They catch all of em that try to. They caught Jack. They caught Skittery. Even Mush.” He almost winces, saying their names. They haven’t appeared on the list yet, but there’s always a chance.

“But Snitch got away with Itey. All the way up to the border. Passed right through. They did it.”

“And almost lost their goddamn lives.” Spot’s voice is harsh for a moment, and Race winces, clenching his fists in his lap. Spot notices, and his hackles fall, his shoulders drooping with exhaustion. It is a while before Race remembers his voice.

“You remember the newsie strike, all those years ago?” He starts, and Spot looks up at him. “When carryin’ the banner was our past, present, and future? When we pandered to the masses with false ‘eadlines and shit-eating grins?” Spot chuckles, and it’s the first beautiful sound Race’s heard all night, pushing the weight from the room. Race almost laughs with him, but not quite. Not quite.

“Those were the days.” Spot sighs quietly, blinking up at the ceiling before turning to fully face Race. He breathes in slowly, finally moving on the bed to face him. He’s not ready for the searching look in Spot’s eyes, the slight quivering in his palms. For what he is sure is the first time in life, Spot Conlon sits in front of him, _scared._

This is what breaks him. he rushes forward, his arms wrapping around Spot’s shoulders, Spot’s arms finding a way around his torso. They cling to one another desperately, and though heat passes between their chests, Race’s blood feels like ice within his veins, flooding his ears as he babbles onward over Spot’s shoulder, desperate to drown out the grief in ways that the rain never could. He ignores the tears running down his cheeks until he feels the first quiet droplets against his shirt, sinking into his skin like a stark chill. He almost pulls back, because only in myth could _Spot Conlon_ be _crying,_ but he knows if he lets go now he will not be able to hold on again. So he stays, simultaneously frozen and flowing, his face burrowed into Spot’s skin, wanting to cement the scent he knows so well forever.

Eventually, they do pry themselves apart, foreheads barely resting on one another, eyes locked. Race clenches his jaw, refusing to break down again. This is where building must begin, not end. Spot traces slow circles onto the back of his palm, no words from his mouth, only air. The silence stretches on smoothly, pressing and receding. In this moment, the storm clouds speak for them, the rain translating in the whispering of white noise of water against asphalt, of thunderclaps, of tremors.

_Come home._

****  
  



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